


Tasting

by greenapple



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M, Power Dynamics, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-22
Updated: 2009-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 21:19:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/854176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenapple/pseuds/greenapple





	Tasting

After the drinks, the cigars; after the city-gazing on the balcony, sedate seduction, dance stiff and rule-bound as a waltz; their evening has ended like this: Sheppard, scuffing the knees of his BDUs on Richard’s rug, open hands braced on Richard’s thighs and sucking whisky off Richard’s fingers. Richard approves, knowing that the scotch will taste even better on his skin than it did in the glass.

There’s a particularly fetching henna burn marking Sheppard from ear to puckish ear, deepening the tan on the back of his neck. It had appeared almost right away, after Richard had offered him the Montecristo and Sheppard couldn’t hide he knew exactly what to do with it — to suck but not inhale, to taste and not breathe. The flush had stuck around throughout the evening with help from the single-malt.

His eyes, younger than the rest of him, are nearly closed. Occasional wet glint between soft, smoke-thin lashes. Shutting out one sense the better to concentrate on the others. Allowing Richard to watch him easily, without having to fight whatever challenge might be there in his look.

Sheppard makes a satisfied sound, and Richard tries to extricate his hand, feels the slide of Sheppard’s worrying tongue and obscene clutch of his mouth down the length of his fingers, air too chill after the heat of Sheppard’s mouth. Sheppard’s own fingers digging into his thighs, and he chases after his hand with a snarl, quick catch of teeth on knuckle. Sheppard looks up at him, then — bright and feral, makes a rough sound he almost can’t hear, snagged deep in his throat.

He doesn’t know what John sees when he looks at him; though Richard is trying to project a cool, wry, and knowing amusement, he suspects he’s too surprised and much too aroused to pull it off. His uncaptured hand is clawing the arm of the chair, and he wills himself to relax. Parts his legs further, under Sheppard’s hands, and John bites him. Hard, and quick. Letting him go just as quickly, nipping gently at the tips of his fingers. Apologizing with flicks of his tongue, too much humor and mischief in his eyes for Richard to believe him.

But he knows John well enough by now to realize that he wants this; that he can’t or won’t do this except on his knees; that preserving the chain of command doesn’t mean that John will be subservient, or, when it comes right down to it — despite any of the trappings he employs or roles he may play or what he may think about himself — that John even knows how.

Richard touches a fingertip to the cushion of John’s lower lip. Leaves a wet trail down John’s chin, rasping at the stubble there. John tilts his head up and gives him a look, unmistakable, and Richard also knows that this isn’t going to happen unless he takes the lead. That one word from him would mean John standing, straightening his uniform, walking out the door, with the promise that tonight could be completely compartmentalized, dismissed, and forgotten.

He doesn’t know how that makes him feel.

At this point, it almost doesn’t matter.

He’s hard, naturally, and has been for quite some time. Since Sheppard’s first real laugh, his shoulders furling and his teeth biting down on the rim of his glass while he did it. Feet up, relaxed and easy, the heel of his boot briefly squawking across Richard’s coffeetable, smudging the glass.

But more than arousal, there’s need, and there is, despite his ego and its clamor to mask all vulnerability, loneliness.

A part of him still thinks he’s making a mistake. That even though John Sheppard had been surprisingly easy to read — despite reports to the contrary, full of words like opaque, oblique, obscure and obfuscate — even though he knew what John wanted from him, or someone like him, and would never ask for; a part of him still scolds that it is one thing to know, to recognize, and another to take advantage. That there there is a ferocity in John matched only by a childlike fragility.

Perhaps this was a mistake, but to quit now would be worse. What’s begun can only be played out until its end.

Richard grips the edge of Sheppard’s jaw, and John nuzzles the inside of his wrist. He reaches around to cradle the back of John’s head, pulls at the silky strays at the nape of John’s neck. Pulling him inward with short, firm tugs. John resisting just because he can; until he’s decided pride has been satisfied, and he breaks with a ragged breath, falling into Richard’s lap and mouthing at his erection, dragging parted lips, bleed of warmth as he breathes through woolen trousers.

He indulges a long-held desire to push his hand through Sheppard’s hair; surprisingly soft, sweat-matted at the tips; can’t enjoy it as much as he’d imagined he would, Sheppard’s mouth too much a distraction. Wants to let Sheppard know how filthy it feels, how good he looks on his knees, wants to talk about his dirty mouth and how gorgeous John is going to look when he fucks it.

He’s pretty sure, though, that John would only balk; or worse, laugh. He senses that what command John is giving him can only be kept in silence.


End file.
